i want a word for that
barefooted breathing when god
sprouts out of the ground next to me
in a color that only exists
in may, a verb for the choreography
of flesh into blossom that says my name
in past tense as if i existed differently yesterday. maybe god
is looking at me the same way i am jealous of moths
trapped between window panes, i
in too many worlds to belong to any of them.
some days i still hear my mother calling me home
out of eden. i think, in some future,
i will teach my children the songs we learn from trees, how to
love the earth like a body. i will teach them that
what is green is holy, and what is holy
lets things stay untold. the garden breathes
gently, opening its mouth to receive
the awaiting baptism: they are hearing, seeing
their faces in the poplars.
Rowan Tate is a Romanian creative and curator of beauty. She reads nonfiction nature books, the backs of shampoo bottles, and sometimes minds.